Getting fitted for a suit has all of the standard awkward hallmarks of having a stranger's hands all over you, (see: Getting a Massage, Getting a Haircut, Receiving Personal, Hands-On Instruction in Yoga), combined with the added humiliation of not being treated like a human. I've heard horror stories from other guys who've told me that, while being measured for a suit, there was a lot of unwelcome "ball-handling" committed by the tailor. That wasn't the case with me, but that doesn't mean my experience wasn't still terrible. All it meant was that I received swift embarrassment in unique and surprising ways, (and that the tailor missed out on the most magical and life-changing ball-handling of his career).
"No words. They should have... sent...a poet."
Going to a tailor means being surrounded on three sides by giant, well-lit mirrors, and on one side by a tailor who just sees you as another mannequin, a series of limbs for him to coldly and wordlessly stroke and poke at. He'll pinch your waist, glide his hands up and down your legs, and take complete control over your limp arms and you just have to stand there and not freak out, because there are other people waiting to get measured and they have nothing to do but watch you. As the socially awkward man-- because of the lights, and the touching, and all of the eyes-- you will get impossibly sweaty almost immediately, and the tailor will know. And you'll know he knows, and he'll think it's a horrible magic trick you're doing on purpose, because no one who gets that sweaty that quickly should have survived in nature, evolutionarily speaking.